Posts Tagged ‘Columns and essays’
Cindy on September 17th, 2008
This essay ran last spring in Strut magazine. With all the talk about “lipstick” lately, it’s a good time to give it another spin….
There’s got to be something seriously wrong with a 50-something woman who keeps 36 tubes of lipstick in her bathroom drawer. That woman would be me. I’m a beauty product junkie on a perpetual quest for the perfect shade of lipstick. As every lipstick junkie knows, temptation is everywhere â at the local drugstore or in upscale department stores. And the names of the colors alone are as irresistible as a box of Godiva chocolates: Double Fudge ⦠Rum Raisin ⦠Molten Caramel ⦠Chocolate Ice. Other shades, with seductive names, such as Stiletto, Voodoo, French Kiss, or Red Hot Mama, promise a whole new life of high drama. Who can resist?
âEven women who don’t wear makeup will wear lipstick,â begins Read My Lips: A Cultural History of Lipstick, by Meg Cohen Ragas and Karen Kozlowski (Chronicle Books). As the authors note, 92% of women wear lipstick as part of their beauty routines and buy an average of four tubes a year. âNothing can keep a girl from her lipstick,â they write, âwhich may explain why it’s one of the most commonly shoplifted items.â
I should add that I’ve paid for every single one of the 36 tubes I own. And while I’ve always enjoyed cosmetics, my lipstick fetish didn’t get out of hand until I hit middle age. After turning 45, I suddenly needed two things to face the second half of my life: contact lenses and the absolute-perfect shade of red lipstick. Of course, the clever magicians who conjure beauty products know full well that women of any vintage are suckers for marketing wizardry and gorgeous packaging. We want to believe that the potions inside those shiny little pots and tubes at the Clinique or Chanel counters have the power to turn heads. We want to believe that the mere flick of a lip-gloss wand can transform any desperate housewife into a goddess.
My lipstick lust is linked to childhood memories â to the beloved paternal grandmother who wore crimson lipstick to church and family parties. Her nickname was Ruby, for Robina, and I’m sure her preference for red wasn’t just a cosmetic coincidence. When my parents traveled, I spent many childhood weekends at Grandma Ruby’s home in Detroit. Escaping boredom (and the wrestling matches on my grandfather’s TV), I would often sneak upstairs to Ruby’s dressing table, where a tempting trove of makeup awaited my exploration.
More than anything, I coveted her elegant gold tubes of dark red lipstick. Their texture was dry and crayonlike â as most lipsticks were in the 1960s â making it nearly impossible to draw a perfect pout on my small mouth. But despite my amateur artistry, I was sure I resembled Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz.
Years later, during college breaks and holidays, I worked in the cosmetics department of a major department store. Waiting on women of all ages and lifestyles, I discovered that lipstick is so much more than a beauty product. A newly divorced customer, for example, once told me that a new tube of lipstick was more therapeutic and much less expensive than a good hour with her psychologist. I also learned that the right shade of lipstick, like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, is downright empowering â and almost as hard to come by. You have to keep experimenting until you fully approve of the woman gazing back at you in the mirror. For some of us, this can take a lifetime.
Still, the question remains: Should I consult a psychiatrist about those 36 tubes of lipstick in my drawer? After all, if Carl Jung was right, the most important work of midlife is to peel away our false layers and masks, to reveal the authentic self. I’ve always been intrigued by Jung’s theory, and I have no problem parting with a few of the false layers I’ve amassed over the years. I can easily unload my outdated clothing, blue eye shadow and all those anti-wrinkle serums that really don’t work. With a little more willpower, I can give up gossip and carbohydrates, too.
But no, I’m not parting with my tubes of Passion Fire and Chocolate Ice. I hope I never stop reinventing myself â or continuing my quest for the perfect shade of red. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on May 23rd, 2008
Earlier this spring, I had lunch with Laurie, one of my closest friends since junior high school. Laurie and I also brought our moms, who are now in their late seventies and hadn’t seen each other in a long time. As we gathered around our table at a local hangout, it occurred to me that these women are my family — in both the literal and figurative sense.
I spent a lot of time at Laurie’s house when I was growing up. And so, just being with Laur and her mom was a heavy dose of 1970s nostalgia for me. Not surprisingly, our lunch conversation circled around memories of blasting the Hollies and the Rolling Stones on the stereo (“This is why I have a hearing problem now,” my mom joked). And Laurie recalled how we used to wander the neighborhood freely after dark on warm summer nights, which is something our own kids were never allowed to do. Things weren’t perfect for baby boomer kids; but they were different.
Looking around the table, I also realized that, between the four of us, we’d survived the deaths of three beloved husbands and fathers — Laurie was widowed not long after we both lost our dads — and three hip replacement surgeries (two of which were mine). In spite of our losses, things had turned out well enough for all of us and we’d grown stronger.
We had a lot to laugh about, too. Twice during our conversation, the phrase “Thank God, we’ve outgrown that” came up, sometimes half seriously. I thought about this all the way home, and later that day, I was inspired to start a list, by no means complete, of some things I’ve outgrown:
–Everything that’s a size 6
–Tampons
–Fingernail decals
–The need to be liked by every single person I encounter
–The idea that I should be happy all the time
–Most fashion magazines
–Desperately competitive people
–The notion that everyone else has it all figured out, and I don’t
–Worrying about what people think of my politics and/or religious views
–Valuing style over substance
–Confusing my career with my real life
–Barrettes
–One-sided conversations with self-absorbed people
–Shoes with pointy toes/high heels
–Frosted pink lipstick
–The desire to meet Paul McCartney
–Inauthentic relationships with relatives
–The belief that I can solve every single one of my kid’s problems or worries
–The belief that I look good with orange streaks in my hair
Soon, I plan to make a list of things I haven’t outgrown — like some of my old friends, eating chocolate-chip cookie dough before it’s baked, or the small town that made me feel grounded and safe. Meanwhile, I’d love to know what the rest of you have “outgrown” (or not) after reaching middle age. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on May 6th, 2008
My 50-something girlfriends and I have been rehashing the weary topic of aging gracefully versus aging desperately. Even in the women’s magazines geared to our demographic, “mature” fashion 
models appear to be surgically altered or Botoxed, then dressed to look 35. The message? Aging is shameful. To be avoided at all costs. She who looks youngest wins ….
There’s even a new book out to lead us on this vengeful anti-aging crusade, and the title alone — How Not to Look Old – makes me wince. It also makes me angry, because I believe women can look fabulous and “older” at the same time. I keep hoping someone will write a book that celebrates real maturity, and doesn’t imply that we’re in some frantic competition with our daughters, or our son’s girlfriends. Like everyone else, I want to look as good (and healthy) as I can, but I have no burning desire to revisit my youth. I don’t miss the insecurities or the silly short skirts or the go-go boots. I’m not afraid to look like a grown-up.
It would help if we had a few more role models like Helen Mirren, Sally Field, Maya Angelou, and Lauren Hutton — elegant, self-assured women who are comfortable in their changing skin. Women who aren’t afraid to show us how beautiful maturity can be.
Maybe’s there’s hope … In the May issue of Ladies Home Journal, for instance, Sally Field discusses her decision to avoid plastic surgery and how that impacts her acting career. And in the May/June issue of AARP The Magazine, Jamie Lee Curtis speaks frankly about her pending 50th birthday, touching on what’s truly important to her and reflecting on things she would or wouldn’t change in her life.
“I want to be older,” Curtis tells AARP. “I actually think there’s an incredible amount of self-knowledge that comes with getting older. I feel way better now than I did when I was 20. I’m stronger, I’m smarter in every way, I’m so much less crazy than I was then.” Curtis is blazing new trails for baby boomer women, and I hope we hear more from her and about her.
Meanwhile, I’m count myself lucky to have several women friends who are at least 10 years older than I am. They’re terrific role models, too, though it’s not likely the media will ever discover them. I often ask for their advice, and hope to learn from their hard-earned wisdom. Now past their childrearing years, these women are finding new ways to share their gifts with the community or in their various professions. And they look gorgeous, just as they are.
Not long ago, in fact, a very stylish friend in her seventies reminded me that reaching maturity doesn’t have to be synonymous with looking foolish or frumpy. She hasn’t had a stitch of cosmetic surgery. Her secret? Well, it’s really hard to explain. It goes beyond her flair with offbeat accessories. She always aims to be her best self, a true original, and never an imitation of someone else. I admire her savoir-faire — and can only aspire to be half as cool as she is. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on April 29th, 2008
At the urging of three very limber middle-aged friends, I finally enrolled in a beginner’s yoga class at the local YMCA. Everyone who practices yoga seems to believe that the ability to twist oneself into a human pretzel is good for the mind, body, and spirit — and that it keeps you from shrinking in your elder years. I’m all for that, and I’m all for anything that’s purported to alleviate stress and heartburn. In fact, one of the aforementioned friends told me that yoga practically changed her life. How could I resist?
Since I am a bilateral hip-replacement patient, however, I can’t begin any exercise program without a sense of caution. And so, before I picked a spot on which to unroll my spiffy new yoga mat from Target, I approached the instructor and informed her of my limitations. Poses that involve looping my legs around my neck, for instance, could result in the painful dislocation of my bionic joints and spoil the class for everyone.
“Not to worry,” the instructor said, beaming with the inner glow of the enlightened. “Just listen to your body, watch what you’re resisting, and do only what you’re comfortable doing.” This was a huge relief, as was the fact that I wasn’t the only inflexible 50-something person in attendance.
So far, I’ve tried three sessions. The word “resistance” pops up often (just like my knee cap), and there are many times the poses feel so awkward that I’m tempted to stop, roll up my mat, and lurch homeward. My inner couch potato keeps telling me that yoga might be too much of a strain, and perhaps not worth all the trouble.
Aside from riding my bicycle daily, I’ve never been good at physical exercise or competitive sports. (If other people like to win at games, I say go for it — and leave me alone with a good book.) When I’m challenged to push beyond my physical abilities, I tend to get bored or give up, which is why I’ve always preferred desk jobs.
But so help me, I really don’t want to end up like my arthritic 77-year-old mother, whose dowager’s hump makes her look even older, and whose energy level is more like that of 97-year-old. Just last month, my mother’s doctor told her (again) that a basic exercise program would add years to her life and to her looks. Yet Mom doesn’t seem to want to make the effort.
So I’m going to ignore the little voice that keeps telling me that I’m no good at yoga. Rather than stare at the television every night, I’m going to practice stretching and breathing and downward dogging. I’m going to get a handle on this yoga thing. Wish me luck. Namaste. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on April 26th, 2008
“Gardens are about waiting and about hope as much as they are about anything.” — Robert Benson, Digging In
Last fall, I posted a short essay about the tulip bulbs Doug and I planted around our patio on an unseasonably warm November afternoon. The bulbs had been given to us by Tilda, a dear friend and longtime neighbor who’d found herself widowed, quite suddenly, a month earlier. Doug and I were pedaling our way home on a bike ride when we’d spotted Tilda working the garden beds in her front yard. We were relieved to see our friend keeping busy, despite her recent loss. So when she asked if we’d like to have all the bulbs she didn’t have room to plant, well, how could we say no? Once again, this good neighbor of ours reminded me that we’re all in this thing together.
Planting tulip bulbs at sundown in an expired November garden is the most audacious act I can think of. Before blooming, bulbs must remain dormant in the cold winter soil, enduring months of total darkness. Bulbs of any kind demand that we believe in possibility. And in the future. I’m reminded of a favorite quote from Sue Monk Kidd’s memoir, When the Heart Waits: “Too many of us panic in the dark,” Kidd writes. “We don’t always understand that it’s a holy dark, and that the idea is to surrender to it and journey through to real light.”
Likewise, grieving the loss of a loved one is difficult work. You can’t put a timetable on healing. Late last year, I’d also lost my only uncle to pancreatic cancer, and my mother became ill. For several months I’d lost all sense of joy, hope, and enthusiasm. It was a terribly long winter, and there were times when I couldn’t even imagine why anything would bother to flower again.
But now, here we are in late April. Our lawns are greening up, and Tilda’s gorgeous pink and magenta tulips are blooming outside our garden room windows. Riding my bike past Tilda’s place this morning, I noticed that her tulips, too, have pushed their way up through the soil, in vivid color, bright with the promise of new beginnings. I am so grateful for this gift. — Cindy La Ferle
